


Not A Drop To Drink

by Phoenix1972



Series: Mag 7 Daybook Bingo Challenge [1]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mag7 Daybook Bingo Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2011-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix1972/pseuds/Phoenix1972
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Mag7 Bingo prompt – Flasks/Canteen.  Pre-Seven.  One of the boys is left beaten and bloody in the desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Drop To Drink

 

 _Disclaimer:          The Magnificent Seven and characters are the property of MGM Television, The Mirsch Corporation, Trilogy Entertainment Group and CBS.  No profit has been made off of this work.  No copyright infringement is intended_.

 

The desert moon shone down on a small band of men circled around three others.  One man, tall, lean, and young was being held up by a large, stocky, older man.  The aggressor, who appeared younger than both, was pacing nearby by mumbling under his breath.  He ceased his pacing and rounded to face the cocky cowboy.

 

“When Mr. Dennings requests you at his table you don’t say no, boy,” a voice growled next to his ear, before a fist plowed into his midsection, causing his knees to buckle.  “He don’t take kindly to people disobeying his orders.”

 

The cowboy dropped heavily to his knees as he clutched at his gut.  Taking a few deep breaths he looked up at his nemesis and smiled coldly.  “He ain’t my boss.  I ride for Paul Clemson and he’s a hell of a lot scarier than Dennings.”  Pushing himself to his feet he swayed where he stood.

 

“Really?  I don’t think so.  When we’re through with you there won’t be enough left for the buzzards to pick over.”

 

“You’re just his lap dog, like one of them yappy little Chihuahuas I saw down in Mexico.  You like to put on a tough show but you’re all bark and no bite,” the cowboy sneered as he pulled himself up to his full height.

 

Face beet red the young man snarled, “You’re dead!” as he pulled his six shooter and fired.  He watched in satisfaction as the cowboy dropped to the ground and clutched at his bleeding thigh.  Taking the four strides needed to reach the downed cowboy he squatted, grabbed the man by the chin, and forced him to look up.  “You need to learn to show your betters a little more respect.”

 

The cowboy stared up the man defiantly and spat out, “Your mama was just a roll in the hay for Dennings and you’re just the leavings.”

 

Smiling coldly the man stood and addressed the others.  “Make him wish he’d never been born then leave him to the desert.  Maybe Clemson will realize Mr. Dennings is not a man to be taken lightly.”

 

~o~

 

He was tired, so tired.  His arms felt like lead and his vision was fading in and out of focus.  To compound his problems, he could no longer see out of his swollen right eye.  And if he concentrated he thought he could wiggle a few loose teeth, or could if his jaw didn’t hurt so much or his tongue taste like he’d been licking the whole entire desert.

 

Nearby an irritating cicada was happily chirping away, promising an afternoon filled with sun scorched unpleasantness.  _Why did they always seem to make more noise the hotter it got?_

 

Carefully turning onto his back with a hiss, he stared at the scrub brush inches above him, its sparse foliage providing minimal protection from the sun’s unrelenting heat.  There was no breeze to cool his heated skin and the sand seemed insistent on coating his cuts and filtering into uncomfortable places.  He was perhaps at his most miserable, but then again there were still several hours to sunset and he wasn’t dead yet.

 

“You better hope I die out here,” he croaked out to the vast emptiness around him, “cause if I make it, I’m gonna hunt you down like the dogs you are.”  Only the cicada answered his gruff outburst and then silence reigned once more.  Coughing, he glared at the canteen lying nearby, beyond his reach.  It was lying out in the sun, its side split open like an overripe melon.  The bastards had taken a hatchet to it before they had poured its life giving water into the thirsty ground, laughing as he lay nearby unable to move from the beating they’d given him.

 

Shouldn’t have pushed on, he thought, should have stayed one more night, he wiped at a tear that leaked from his good eye.  There was no need to voice it, there was no one to hear him.  _Was too impatient to get home._

 

They could have at least left the canteen.  Any decent person would, but then these weren’t decent people.  They were no good cowhands working for a corrupt cattle baron.  How would they benefit from what they’d done?  Hell, they’d even gone as far as to run his horse off.  It wasn’t as if he’d be able to walk very far, not with the hole in his leg.  He’d used his bandana to bandage the wound and the bleeding had slowed considerably, though in hindsight bleeding to death may have been less painful and not to mention faster.  Squinting at the canteen again he cursed his luck.  Would anyone find him?  Did they even know where to look?How long did it take to die of thirst anyhow? __

Could there be a little water left?  Slowly and painfully he turned onto his side.  Perhaps a sip left?  Is that too much to ask?  Dropping over onto his stomach he rested his forehead on his outstretched arm.  The grit under his cheek was hot and abrasive like whiskers brushing across sensitive skin.

 

 _Don’t give up.  Don’t give up_.  Pulling his battered body through the underbrush he kept his gaze focused on the canteen lying so close, yet seeming so far.  His fingers grasped at the dry grasses and made furrows in the dirt.

 

His eye was so dry and weary he let it drift closed, pulling himself along by feel, afraid if he even paused he wouldn’t be able to coax his body into moving again.  He reached forward once more and his hand struck smooth wood.  Slowly opening his eye he realized he’d reached the canteen.  “Please.”  With clumsy fingers he pulled the damaged canteen in close to his body and moved onto his side.

 

Swallowing convulsively, he slowly lifted the canteen, cupped his hand and tilted.  Nothing.  He shook the canteen and still nothing.  Howling in frustration he flung the canteen away and dropped down in the dirt, his shoulders heaving with anguished cries he could no longer suppress.

 

Spent, he lay where he stopped, the sun burning the care right out of his body.  The vultures would no doubt be circling and he hoped they at least waited until he drew his last breath.

 

The pounding in his ears kept him from drifting away.  Can’t I at least die in peace?  What’s with all the racket?

 

“Buck!”  A voice called from a distance away.

 

 _The angels are here already?_

 

“Buck!”  The voice repeated, but much closer and more desperate.

 

 _Why’s she sound like Chris?_

 

Cracking his eye open as a shadow fell across his face, Buck frowned.  “You ain’t no ethereal beauty.”

 

“Well at least I know you’re not dead,” Chris Larabee sighed as he knelt down next to his friend.

 

Blinking back tears of relief, Buck grumbled, “Closer than I’d like.  Glad you showed up, Stud.”

 

Wiping a sleeve across his eyes, Chris choked, “Glad we got to you before the buzzards did.”

 

Buck’s chuckle at Chris’s attempt at levity turned to a hacking cough which left him breathless and shaking.  Buck felt himself lifted to rest against the hard wall of Chris’s chest as cool water bathed his heated face.

 

“Water,” Buck moaned, grasping desperately at Chris’s hand.

 

“Steady.”  Chris brought the canteen to Buck’s cracked lips, watching closely as his friend tried to quench his thirst.  Several frantic gulps forced him to pull the water away.  “Not so fast, you’ll get sick.”

 

“Please,” he cried as he grasped for the canteen Chris had moved away.

 

With a trembling hand, Chris used a dampened bandana to wash away the dirt from Buck’s face.  “I’ve brought plenty of water.”

 

Taking a shuddering breath Buck whispered, “Wasn’t sure you’d find me.”

 

“I’ll always find you,” Chris admonished, cupping Buck’s cheek.  Pulling his friend in tighter to his chest Chris let Buck drink again.

 

Buck pushed the canteen away and rested against Chris’s chest, listening to the strong and steady rhythm of Chris’s heart.  “Then I’m just glad you made it in time.”

 

“Me too,” Chris answered as Buck settled more comfortably against him.

 

“Oh, Chris?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I think I’m done herding beeves, let’s try something else for awhile.”

 

Looking down at Buck’s battered face Chris asked, “You sure?  We’ve only been here for three weeks.”

 

Taking another sip of water Buck snarked, “Three weeks to long.  Dennings and Clemson are going to go to war over water rights and I don’t want us caught in the middle.”

 

Buck felt Chris stiffen.  “Did Dennings do this?” Chris asked looking around.

 

Buck grasped Chris’s hand.  “One of his bastard kids who thinks he’s got something to prove.  I’m all for heading south.”

 

“All right then.  We get you healed up and we’ll take off, but not before we teach Dennings’ kid about ganging up on innocent people.”

 

Laying the canteen by his side Buck replied, “You know, Stud?  I think I’ll just count my blessings and move on this time.  Let’s head down Mexico way and find us some fun.”

 

“If that’s what you want to do, but I still think he ought to get his comeuppance.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, I’m sure he will.  Now you said up brought plenty of water?  How about grabbing me another canteen,” Buck said as he shook the one he currently had. “This one’s getting a mite low.”


End file.
